A Memory Flat
by The Hmuff
Summary: When John is drawing up a memory palace, Sherlock takes a look and is moved by what he sees. Oneshot.


**A Memory Flat**

When he first walked in, I didn't even notice him. I had been bent over my work; I remember being so absorbed that I didn't hear his footsteps. Pencil lead scratched paper, shaded in outlines; fingers smudged, blending dark and light. He had come in stealthily, like a cat, and I had been so immersed in my drawing I didn't realise he was standing next to me until I felt breath on my cheek.

"Sherlock!" I yelped, turning around in my chair so quickly that it rocked backward, almost sending me sprawling backwards.

His expression was calm and equable, but there was a definite smirk in his voice as he replied, "Hello, John."

I stared at him blankly for a long moment, casting about desperately for something to say. The only thing that came out was: "You're back early."

"Ah. Well…" He tossed his coat over the back of a chair and began undoing his scarf, grinning with concentration as he unfastened the knot. "Well, it's a bit of a long story."

"Then I don't want to know." Leaning back in the chair, I locked my fingers beneath my head and exhaled in a slow, steady stream, looking over my work. _Not bad. _

"What's this?"

"Er…a picture…"

"A blueprint." It sounded like there should have been a question mark there, but no, it was a statement.

"More or less." I leaned forward and picked up the pencil again, but didn't draw, just sat there, staring blankly at the pencil as I twirled it between my fingertips. "I just, uh, started drawing a couple minutes ago… bored out of my skull…you know how it is."

"Actually, you've been drawing for a little over forty five minutes. The cup of tea Mrs Hudson makes you at 2:30 is still sitting at your desk, un-drunk and quite cold—the cream left a slight skin at the top, so you haven't even touched it in the past forty-five minutes. The pencil lead was sharpened just before I came, so obviously it had been worn down. Your laptop is still in the case, where it was when I left three hours ago, so you haven't been working on your blog. And just look at all those eraser marks. And then of course, the black streak down the side of your hand shows—"

"N—nevermind," I cut in, waving my lead-blackened hand dismissively. "I've been drawing. I admit it."

He looked over my shoulder again, and was silent for a long time. Then he said, "It's our flat."

His tone was so much softer from before that I risked a backward glance in his direction. His expression was very quiet, understated, but I saw something there that I'm not sure I'd ever seen before. Almost… almost tender. It seemed wrong to attribute that word to Sherlock—a man I've long believed to be bordering on psychopathy—but there it was.

"Ah…er… yes." I looked at the paper, as if for the first time. "It is." I resumed drawing.

He didn't say anything, just kept on staring. I felt as if he wanted me to continue, so I sighed and explained, "I'm building a, er, memory palace."

"A memory flat," he corrected. "But I build them mentally. Not on paper."

"Yeah, but some of us aren't quite as bloody clever as you. If I tried to build one mentally, it would probably end up a memory bedsit."

The thought made him grin. He leaned forward a little to study the picture more closely. "What are you trying to remember?"

"Well, I was just reading this article—"

"_Consequences of Concussions, _Andrew Bleddyn, for the London Times. I read it three hours ago."

I stared at him for a moment before shaking myself mentally and continuing: "Well, I went through a lot of head trauma in Afghanistan. Concussions lead to memory loss. And I don't want to forget." I said the words of the last sentence slowly, emphasising each word with a sweep of my pencil on the paper.

He was silent for a long time, just sort of looking and watching me draw. I adjusted my position in the chair, clearing my throat uncomfortably as I swept stray eraser shavings from the paper. I've never liked people watching me when I'm drawing or writing, and even Sherlock, who is an exception to most rules in my life, isn't an exception to this at all. I just can't work when people are watching: it's a fact.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, all of a sudden. A long, pale finger brushed against the high-heeled shoe in the coat closet. His touch was just light enough not to smudge.

I frowned a little. "The lady in pink, remember?"

"Ah, yes. And this?" His finger moved up to the model of the solar system in the bedroom.

"Oh." I couldn't help but laugh a little. "That's the time when—"

"When I said I didn't know the sun revolved around the earth," Sherlock sighed.

I debated correcting him for a moment, but thought better of it.

"And what's that?" He pointed to a bottle of pills. It was on the balcony, completely surrounded by shadow. Just in the picture, it looked dark and menacing.

"When..." I swallowed hard. I've been through a lot, but just thinking about then sent a cold chill through me."That was when you almost took those bloody pills. That would have killed you."

"Of course." He paused for a moment, appreciating the memory before speaking in a slightly softer tone: "Until you saved me." And then he added, abruptly, "Are these all ours?"

"Er…" I stared down at the page for a long time. Looking over everything. "Ours?"

"Mutual memories. Experiences we shared. Call them what you will."

"I think so." _Nothing really important happened until you,_ I wanted to say. I restrained myself, but I think he knew it, anyway. "They're all ours," I said instead.

"This is brilliant," he murmured, looking over the plans. "You've captured everything..." And then—I can't really explain it—his expression changed. It didn't become warm—that's not it. But there was something in his eyes, suddenly, and perhaps a ghost of a smile on his lips. I couldn't really name it then. And I can't now. But I realised that he looked... pleased. No, not just pleased, but happy. Happy, with that same tenderness from before. He looked like he was just an old friend. Not a psychopath. Not some feared, laughed at, widely hated detective.

He looked, well, human.

We didn't say a whole lot more after that. I continued drawing. He continued watching. And then Sherlock looked up at me, hopefulness in his face. "Do you mind if I keep you company while you finish?"

I must have looked a little confused, but I remember smiling at his expression. "Of course not. There's some tea right here, if you fancy a cup."

Settling himself into a chair next to me, he grinned at my attempt at a joke, and watched as I continued working on my picture.

We didn't talk for the next hour or so, apart from me asking a few questions to try and jog my memory, and Sherlock politely pointing out when I got the dimensions of a room wrong.

He was studying my drawing the entire time, but it didn't end up bothering me at all.

* * *

**Author's Note: **There you go: my first Sherlock fanfic! If you enjoyed, leave a review! And, in case you were wondering (lol), I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything like that.


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